Rosehaven (Medieval Song 5)

She looked at the marten. He was lying along the length of Severin’s arm now, looking sleek, his belly stretched with all the food he’d eaten.

“He is fat.”

“Aye, he doesn’t hunt much. Not enough time has passed since he suffered so in Rouen. He will improve.”

“Lord Graelam told me of your captivity and why Trist eats pork.”

“He shouldn’t have. It is not your affair.”

“Evidently he didn’t agree with you. Since we are married, isn’t it right that we know something of each other?”

He stared down at his pewter plate that still held its slice of thick bread with meat chunks on top of it. The thick gravy had congealed. He saw that she hadn’t eaten much either. Not that he cared. He said aloud, “It isn’t important to me. You are my wife. You belong to me. You are an obligation. I will protect you as I will protect all else that is mine.”

She’d been an obligation to her father, keeping her distance, treading quietly around him, seeing to his comfort, but still she was her mother’s daughter, and thus to be despised. She remembered hearing one of the other women say to Dame Agnes that Hastings’s mother had cursed when she’d borne a girl rather than an heir, even though the girl child would be named Hastings and thus carry on the tradition. No, Janet had wanted an heir because she knew Fawke would make her go through pregnancy again until she bore him one. But Janet had come to love her daughter, Hastings was more certain of that than she was certain of anything else in her life. Aye, her mother had loved her dearly until she had died, beaten to death by order of her husband. Hastings shook away the memories. She looked at her husband, another who saw her as naught but an obligation. “You said you had bedded women before you arrived here. I do not understand that.”

A black brow went upward. “What is there to understand? I am a man. I told you, I wanted to have control with you.”

Because the marten was lying fat and replete along his arm, because she couldn’t fear a man with an animal lying on his arm, she said, “When I was fifteen the jeweler’s son kissed me. I liked it. I suppose I should have enjoyed him more before I wedded you.”

His arm must have locked because the marten raised his head, readying himself to move quickly. Severin drew a deep breath, then rubbed the animal’s head with his finger. Both his arm and the marten eased.

He speared a chunk of beef with his knife, looked at it a moment as if it would perhaps poison him, then ate it. He chewed slowly. Finally, he said, “You are not meek. That is a requirement in a wife. You will hold yourself silent. You will obey me. You will not mock me with an eye to angering me.”

“I am not mocking you, merely jesting with you. Well, mayhap there is irony to be gleaned from my words. Do not misunderstand me, my lord. I see that you are a man. I am assured that you are a strong and an able protector, a warrior. I accept that. I will even accept you as my husband, since I have no choice, but I will not become one of the rushes for you to tread upon. Even my father, who had no affection for me, did not expect that of me.”

“A husband is not a father.”

She felt as if she were battering herself against the curtain wall of the outer bailey. “No,” she said quietly, “I believe you are right.”

“You are not grieving for your father.”

“I have grieved for the past two months. I could ease his pain, but nothing more. I couldn’t cure him. Not that he wanted to accept anything from my hand that would ease him.”

“You are truly a healer?”

“I try. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes the illness overwhelms the victim and all my efforts to heal.”

Lord Graelam cleared his throat as he rose. “Listen, all. Let us all drink to the new lord and lady of Oxborough.”

Everyone did drink and cheer, but it was an effort. No one knew this man who was their new master. All were wary. Most, she knew, were worried for her. Even Beamis and her father’s men-at-arms had kept their distance, but she saw they now seemed more at ease with Severin’s men.

She left the great hall as soon as she could. Tonight would be her last night of freedom. Tonight would be her last night to be herself. Dame Agnes, who had sewn her gown and had been her mother’s nurse and hers as well, accompanied her to her small bedchamber. “It is kindness on the lord’s part,” the old woman said, “that he not come to you tonight. But tomorrow night, my little pet, you must allow him to take you. I will pray that he won’t hurt you, but know that it will hurt a bit the first time. But it isn’t important. You lie still and let him do what he must. Later, we can speak of other things.”

What other things? Hastings wondered. She said, “I know what he will do, Agnes. I’ve heard that some women even enjoy the act. My mother must have enjoyed Ralph the falconer since she willingly went to his bed.”

“You are not your poor mother. She was unhappy for a while, but then Lord Fawke gave her no chance to change. It is a tragedy.”

“What do you mean? She wanted to return to my father?”

Dame Agnes tightly seamed her thin lips.

“Come, my mother has been dead many years now. My father is dead. There is no one here to feel their pain anymore. Tell me, Agnes. Don’t you believe I deserve to know?”

“Hold still,” the old woman said.

Hastings said nothing more, just raised her arms and moved this way and that until Agnes had removed the precious saffron silk gown. “You will keep it safe for your own daughter,” she said. “I doubt I will be here to sew her wedding gown for her.”

“Of course you will. I grow more efficient with my herbs every day. You will see, by next month I will be able to cure the plague. Mayhap even old age.”